Shades of Gray
by amv4eva
Summary: Re-do of 6th BOOK not movie . What if Draco's mission hadn't been to kill Dumbledore? What if he was ordered to kill a member of the Golden Trio? A certain female muggle-born 'Muddblood' member? And what if his mission went wrong...very, very wrong? DMHG
1. Dark Mark

_Amv: I'm sorry, I just HAD to start writing this! I've gotten the entire plot and everything else planned out and I'm already halfway through chapter two. Please, PLEASE humor me and read & review this! Think of it as your Christmas present to me!_

_I do not own Harry Potter. _

_**UPDATE: **__This was updated from the original for two reasons: first, there were a few grammar mistakes, and secondly, because I thought I should improve Draco's O.W.L.S since he's not as stupid as I make him seem originally. _

**Chapter One**

Fire.

That was all he knew, all he felt, all he could focus on. There was no world. There was only himself and this blinding, blazing pain in his forearm. He screwed up his face, biting the inside of his cheek so hard it bled. He didn't make a noise. He couldn't make a noise. It wasn't allowed. If he made any sound, even the tiniest noise at the back of his throat, this pain would be for nothing, and he would let everyone down.

Finally the burning stopped and died down to a dull, numbing throb. The hand holding his arm released him, and he sunk down to his knees in exhaustion. He looked down at the inside of his left forearm. Branded into his pale white skin was the stark black image of a skull with a snake twined through its mouth and below it.

Most teenagers had a party on their sixteenth birthday. Draco Malfoy was branded with the Dark Mark.

He looked up at the man who had given him the Mark. The man was deathly pale and bald, with slits for nostrils and red eyes. Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the most famous and feared dark wizard for a hundred years. And now Draco bore the Mark of his followers. Of the Death Eaters.

Voldemort smiled. "Congratulations, Draco. You've just completed the first step to becoming a true follower."

"The first step?" Draco repeated.

"But of course. Did you think that you could get the Mark and be done with it?" Voldemort asked.

Draco had hoped, but clearly nothing could be that easy. He shook his head. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"But we all know that. After all," Voldemort tucked his wand into his robes and glanced at the woman standing along the wall. She had long, fair hair pulled back into a bun sitting low on the nape of her neck. Though she tried to appear brave, the hands she held behind her back trembled and her light blue eyes shone with suppressed tears. With a chuckle he turned back to Draco. "You don't have much choice, do you?"

Draco didn't respond and refused to look at his mother. Doing so would look like a weak cry for help in the Dark Lord's eyes.

"Fortunately for you, receiving the Mark was the first step in becoming my follower. Your next test is a test of your loyalty to me. I expect all of my Death Eaters to show loyalty to me until the end. You must not tell anyone what I'm about to tell you, howsoever you are tortured." Voldemort allowed the last word to linger in the air. The silence in the room was nearly tangible.

"Go into the next room for your test. And you must not reveal any information I have told you." Voldemort said. "I have business to attend to, so I will return in an hour or so."

"You didn't tell me any information," Draco said.

Voldemort gave a chilling smile and Disapparated.

Draco looked at his mother wordlessly and stood up to go. His legs wobbled slightly beneath him and he stepped into the next room. It was his father's study, a room where he had always found the man working when he was younger. But the person sitting in his father's leather chair no more resembled him than a centaur resembled a mermaid. She was dressed in a snug-fitting but torn and dirty black dress with her Death Eater's robe over it. Her hair was knotted on top of her head crazily, curls and strands escaping it and falling over her back and face, and her teeth, when she leered at him, were chipped and blackened.

"Good evening and happy birthday, my dear nephew," she said.

"Thank you, Aunt Bella," Draco replied quietly.

"I'm so proud of you," Bellatrix Lestrange said, standing up. She swayed, as if she was drunk, but Draco knew it wasn't wine that intoxicated her. It was her Dark Lord and his power and his beliefs that corresponded exactly with her own. She would do anything her Master ordered.

She sat on his father's deck and studied him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Are you ready, Draco?" she whispered, "You know what to do?"

No, Draco wanted to reply. No, he had no idea. He only knew that he couldn't reveal any information Voldemort told him, but there wasn't anything Voldemort had told him that was worth knowing.

Before he could answer, Bellatrix flicked her wand at him. Draco was blasted off his feet, his back against the door, his head crashing into the heavy oak wood. He sunk to the floor, stunned. His head was spinning, but before he could regain his bearings, Bellatrix threw him against the walls, the ceiling, and let him crash to the floor. There was a nasty crack as his right leg landed awkwardly beneath him, breaking his fall.

Bellatrix flicked him onto his back with her wand and stood towering above him. "What did the Dark Lord tell you?"

"Nothing," Draco gasped out through the pain.

Bellatrix fired a spell at him. Draco felt his robes singe and his arms began to blister. What had she jinxed him with? _Difindo? Reducto? _His eyes watered and she asked again, "What did the Dark Lord tell you?"

"Nothing," Draco repeated.

Her dark eyes stared into his own, and Draco suddenly knew what was coming.

"_Crucio!" _Bellatrix yelled.

The pain was unbelievable. Hot knives stabbed every inch of his body. His joints felt as if they were being twisted all the wrong ways. He would have taken being branded with the Mark, all over his body, repeatedly, and been thankful and glad. He recalled his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher using this spell on a spider two years ago. The flinching, twitching bug had struck him as humorous; now, he was sickened with his fourteen-year-old self. This wasn't funny. No creature deserved this pain. Now he finally understood why the Cruciartus Curse was called an Unforgiveable Curse.

Bellatrix lifted the curse and studied her panting, shaking nephew. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing," Draco croaked. His throat was raw. He realized that he had been screaming.

The Curse again. The cycle continued for what seemed like ages. Curse. Question. Refusal. Curse. Question. Refusal. Draco began to wish he would die, that it would end. Nothing was worth this pain. This entire thing—the Dark Mark, these tests—wasn't his idea, his choice. He supported Voldemort's plans and ideas, he believed that Muggle-borns had no place in his school or in the world, but he had never wanted to be a Death Eater.

Bellatrix stopped the curse again and pulled him to his feet. She shoved him against the wall with a hand on his throat.

"Are you loyal to the Dark Lord?" She asked, a mad gleam in her eyes.

"Yes," Draco said weakly. She had jarred his leg when she moved him and the pain was making his eyes water again.

Bellatrix took her dagger out of her pocket and cut a thin, shallow cut on his left cheek. "Say it like you mean it, Draco!" She shrieked.

"Yes!" Draco said it louder. Bellatrix slashed him on his right cheekbone below his eyes, deeper this time. Warm blood began to drip down his face.

"_Like you mean it!"_

"_BELLATRIX!"_

A hand grabbed Bellatrix on the shoulder and yanked her off of him. "Bellatrix, control yourself!"

Draco stared at the man. Curtains of shoulder-length, slightly greasy black hair framed his sallow face, dark eyes, and hooked nose. Severus Snape held his wand threateningly at her. "You overstep your boundaries. You weren't told to kill the boy, only test him. Get out. Now."

Bellatrix shot him a haughty, disdaining glare and exited the room. Snape watched her go and indicated for Draco to sit. He stumbled into a chair in front of his father's desk and collapsed, trembling.

"You're limping," Snape observed. "Where does it hurt?"

"Where _doesn't _it hurt?" Draco murmured. "I just had the Cruciartus Curse used on me for a good twenty minutes straight."

Snape's lip curled. "She never had much restraint. Now, I can't heal your wounds, but I can splint your leg." He pointed his wand, and white bandages came out of its tip and wrapped tightly around his shin, where he had pulled up his pant leg. He tried to stand, and immediately wished he hadn't. The bandage braced his leg and caused the broken bones (for he now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his leg was, indeed, broken) to grate against each other. He swayed and sat down again.

The room was quiet for a few minutes. Draco asked, "Why are you here?"

"I am here because the Dark Lord requested my presence, and I felt that Lucius would have wanted me to be here when he could not." Snape replied.

Draco nodded in understanding just as a loud crack announced someone Apparating into the room. Both Draco and Snape turned to find Lord Voldemort. He had a goblin at his side, tightly bound with cords. The Dark Lord shoved it face-first to the ground. A red stain began to pool onto the carpet below it.

"Hello, Severus," Voldemort said pleasantly, as if he hadn't just come into the room with a goblin that had a potentially life-threatening injury. "So glad you could make it."

"The pleasure is mine, my Lord," Snape replied in his characteristically dry, emotionless voice.

"And Draco," Voldemort went on, turning to him. "You look a little worse for wear than you did an hour ago, but you appear to be holding up well. I have a second test for you."

_Oh, dear God, _Draco thought. "Do you, my Lord?"

"I do. It's a little unorthodox, but I feel it could be useful in regards to your training." He nudged the goblin onto its back with the toe of his boot. The goblin let out a low groan. "I needed to get some information from this creature, but he refused to give it to me until after I killed his wife and children. I've gotten all I need to out of it, and I decided to have you put it out of its misery."

"What?" His ordeal with the Curse had left him exhausted and his wits were moving slowly.

"Kill the goblin," Voldemort said.

The order woke Draco up. "I…" He looked down at the goblin. It was certainly ugly, with a pointed face, sharp little teeth, and long fingers and toes. There was a large slash across his chest, starting at his right shoulder and ending just below the left side of the ribcage. The cut wasn't deep, but the size of it would kill the goblin anyway.

"I am unsure if this is a good idea, my Lord," Snape stepped in. "Draco may be a newly recruited Death Eater, but it is difficult for a sixteen-year-old to perform the Killing Curse. Besides, he cannot stand."

"Why should he stand?" Voldemort asked coldly. "I know I say that standing above the body makes the kill that much more satisfying, but there will be plenty of time for satisfying killings in the future." He looked at Draco. "Do it," he ordered.

Draco looked between the two men then down at the goblin. He was only semi-conscious, most likely barely hearing what they said, but his small, beady eyes looked into his. He felt a wave of revulsion at what he was about to do and raised his wand. He recalled his fourth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher telling the class that the Killing Curse needed a good amount of force behind it, so he summed up his magical power and yelled, "_Avada Kedavra!"_

There was a flash of green light, a short, brief cry that abruptly cut off, and the goblin lay dead. Its empty eyes were still looking into Draco's.

The room was quiet before Voldemort said, "Well done, Draco. You seem to be a natural killer."

Snape said nothing. Draco felt as if he were about to throw up, but he managed to choke out, "Th-thank you, my Lord."

"I will go out into the entrance hall and inform your parents and aunt of your success." Voldemort said before exiting the room. When he was gone, Draco buried his face in his trembling hands. He felt dirty, not proud. He didn't want to be a "natural killer."

"We should go," Snape said. He helped Draco stand, and they left the study and went to the entrance hall. His mother stood where she had been before he left and she gave a tiny gasp of horror at the sight of him. Bellatrix leaned on the wall beside them, eyes on Voldemort. The Dark Lord was standing on the steps so he was elevated above everyone else. Draco knelt about ten feet from him, alone, and Snape went to stand near his mother.

"So…young Draco," Voldemort said, lightly touching his fingertips together as he surveyed his newest recruit. "Before I can give you your first job for me, I'm afraid you must pass one more test."

Draco felt his face, what could be seen under the blood Bellatrix's wounds had let out, go deathly white. He tried to keep his face passive, emotionless, but internally he trembled. After the ordeal with the Curse, killing the goblin, and being branded with the Mark, he was unsure if he could take more. He glanced around the room. Snape's face was just as expressionless as his own; his mother was in tears at the sight of his mangled and burned body and robes; Bellatrix looked prouder than he had ever seen her. No one was going to stop this; no one was going to stop him. He had no options, no other choices, nowhere to run. He couldn't run and leave his mother to take Voldemort's wrath over his father's failure at the Ministry weeks ago. It was his mother or him. Draco had chosen to put himself into the noose.

He drew in a deep breath and looked back up into Voldemort's pitiless red eyes. "I'm ready."

It was so sudden that Draco had no way to prepare for it, not that he knew what was going on. All he knew was that he was seeing snippets of scenes from his past as if he were watching a movie: he is seven, watching with a mixture of revulsion and confusion as his father beats the house-elf senseless for not putting enough sugar in Draco's cocoa…He is thirteen, and a hippogriff is standing above him, wings flapping, talons flying, fury in its orange eyes…He is fourteen, trying to be a gentleman as Pansy Parkinson clings to his arm, and a familiar girl in pale blue robes walks past him, and he wants to speak, to sneer, but the words don't come, and he watches dumbly as she moves away from him, holding the arm of Viktor Krum…

As quickly as it started, it was over. Draco bowed his head, his hair covering his eyes, sweat dripping down his temples and stinging as they mixed in his cuts. He took great, searing breaths, trying to fight the growing panic and fear rising up in him. Draco looked up at Voldemort and found the Dark Lord smiling. He knew Draco's feelings, his terror, and reveled in it.

"Interesting," Voldemort said. "You've met crossroads in your past…and I'm glad to see you've chosen the right paths. Congratulations. You have passed your tests. You may kiss my robes."

Slowly, Draco got to his feet. His legs, especially the broken one, protested the movement and he stumbled to Voldemort. He knelt, took the hem of his black robe just as he had watched his father do in the past, and pressed them to his lips. He dropped the hem and haltingly returned to his place. Voldemort still had that same smile on his face.

"Now, Draco, my newest, youngest Death Eater…Your mission."

The room, if it was possible, was even quieter. The Dark Lord continued, "Am I correct in saying that you will be returning to Hogwarts to begin your sixth year with Harry Potter?"

"Yes, my Lord," Draco croaked.

"Tell me, do you know who is most important to Harry Potter? A best friend, perhaps, or a girlfriend…?" Voldemort asked.

Draco thought. "He broke up with a girl last year, Cho Chee, or something…he mostly spends his time with blood traitors like the Weasleys. Oh, yes, and Mudblood Granger, she's part of his little posse."

Voldemort's attention perked. "'Mudblood Granger?' 'She?' Tell me about her," he ordered.

"Name's Hermione. A right know-it-all, the teacher's favorite, stickler for rules, the girl in Potter's Golden Trio of friends," Draco spat, a stab of annoyance in his gut at mentioning her. "Always acts like she's got a wand up her—"

"That will do," Voldemort said, sounding amused. "Well, this is much more straightforward than I thought. You mission is to get close to this Hermione Granger Mudblood, close to Potter if you have to. Any information you learn about him should be passed on to me through Severus. Earn her trust and the trust of the others if you can…then take away a member of the so-called 'Golden Trio.' Kill the Mudblood."

And with his order, Voldemort Disapparated from the entrance hall. Bellatrix let out a loud, maniacal cackle, screamed, "Good luck, my dear nephew!" and Disapparated as well.

With the Dark Lord and her sister gone, his mother, Narcissa, ran to her son. Clutching him to her, she sobbed, saying, "Draco…oh, Draco…"

"'M Fine." The words felt thick in his mouth and he detached himself from his mother. Dimly, he noted that he had left a large bloodstain on her white blouse. He began to sway, the exhaustion and stress of the past hour and a half—had it really been such a short time?—finally getting to him as the adrenaline in his blood drained away. He felt his broken leg, cuts, and burns as he hadn't before, and, unable to utter another word, he sank down into black unconsciousness.

Draco's heavy eyelids twitched as he felt gentle hands sponge his forehead. It was difficult to move without the area protesting, screaming with sores and aches. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes, and after a few blinks, a pair of large, tennis-ball shaped yellow eyes fell into focus.

With a startled half-yell he shoved it away and scrambled upright. His back came into contact with the dark wood of the headboard of his bed. He studied the small, bat-eared creature dressed in a slightly frayed but otherwise clean pillowcase.

Draco gave a long sigh. "Lina, what were you doing?"

The house-elf looked up at him and said, "Master Draco has a slight fever, sir. Mistress Narcissa told Lina to take care of Master Draco while she got something to eat. Lina is sorry for startling Master Draco!"

"It doesn't matter," Draco said with a shrug. Since his father had been tricked into accidentally setting their former house-elf free (he had never said exactly how, only that it had something to do with that "[explicative] [explicative] Potter"), he had changed policies. They weren't to treat the house-elf as an equal, no, never, but they were to treat her with a certain amount of respect so she wouldn't be so "desperate" to run away.

He pulled back his blankets and noticed that his right leg was wrapped in fresh white bandages. "Lina, didn't someone fix my leg?"

"Yes, Master Draco. The bandages are for the swelling," Lina answered in her squeaky voice.

He nodded and got out of bed and limped to his mirror to see himself. His face, normally very pale, was even whiter after losing so much blood. His platinum blond hair was ungelled, his bangs falling over his forehead and into his light gray-blue eyes. Sweeping his bangs aside, he found that his eyes were shadowed and had a faintly haunted look about them. The wounds Bellatrix had inflicted on him were healed, but he noticed that the one below his right eye wasn't completely gone. There was a thin, curved scar along the curve of his eye socket.

"Lina, why didn't you completely heal this one?" He asked, pointing at it.

Lina grinned toothily. "Lina thought it made Master Draco look rugged, sir!"

He raised an eyebrow at the house-elf as his mother entered the room.

"Mum," he said, indicating his cheek, "does this scar really make me look 'rugged?'"

A tiny smile creased her face, which, Draco now saw, looked exhausted. "Sorry, no, son. I told Lina to tell you that. The scar isn't even noticeable from a distance or in normal conversation."

"Good. I don't want to be like Potter or anything," Draco said. He sat on his desk.

Narcissa sighed. "Draco, please don't mention anything about your mission to me, at least for now. Last night seems like a nightmare." She sat on the corner of his bed and said, "Lina, bring us some tea."

"Certainly, Mistress Narcissa!" Lina said cheerfully before bowing out of the room.

They listened to Lina's steps as she shuffled down the hall. When her footfalls faded away, Draco asked, "What time is it?"

"A little past noon," his mother replied. "You've been out for a while."

Draco nodded and studied his bandaged leg. He noticed that his forearms were wrapped as well. "What did Bella hit me with?"

His mother frowned. _"Reducto."_

Draco nodded again, feigning disinterest. "Anything interesting happen while I was asleep?"

"Actually, yes," Narcissa pulled an envelope out of her pocket. "Your O.W.L.s results came." She stood up and set the envelope on the tabled next to him. She kissed him lightly on the head. "I have something to do. I'll be home for dinner."

"Bye, mum," Draco said. He waited for her to go and then he took up the envelope and broke the wax Hogwarts Crest seal. He realized his hands were shaking slightly as he pulled out the parchment and unfolded it. The letter said:

**Ordinary Wizarding Levels Results**

**Pass Grades Fail Grades**

**Outstanding (O) Poor (P)**

**Exceeds Expectations (E) Dreadful (D)**

**Acceptable (A) Troll (T)**

_**Draco Abraxas Malfoy has received:**_

**Astronomy O**

**Care of Magical Creatures E**

**Charms O**

**Transfiguration O**

**Potions O**

**Herbology O**

**Defense Against the Dark Arts E**

**History of Magic O**

Draco read the paper over and over and finally let out a small sigh of relief. He grinned, thankful that he hadn't failed anything, something he was sure he couldn't say for Crabbe or Goyle. Of course, he hadn't thought he would fail anything. He may have acted collected about the tests, but he still remembered whipping out note cards while he was patrolling the corridors late at night or when he knew no one was watching.

But inevitably, his mind drifted to his mission and the girl he was now supposed to kill. Not that he minded; he hated the stuck-up Mudblood. But wondered if, wherever she was, she was giving a small sigh of relief over her results as well.

He snorted. She had probably gotten straight O's, or something.

_Amv: PLEEEEEAAASSSEEE REVIEW! Merry Christmas! Chapter 5 of _Perfect Chemistry _will be up soon!_


	2. Diagon Alley

_Amv: You have no idea how much fun I'm having with this. Let's put it this way: TOO MUCH. Thanks so much for those who have reviewed. xAccioPencil, your review totally made my Christmas. HermionieRocks, I'm sorry I can't answer your first question, but I will tell you that Ron and Harry don't figure out that Draco is trying to kill Hermione. And lauerlley, I understand what you mean with Voldemort being a little OOC last chapter. I had just had some difficulty balancing between his evil-ness and what I needed to be done in chapter one. I'll work on that. Also, than thanks condawg1, Tembalina and LIZIES for your reviews!_

_Enjoy, all! I don't own Harry Potter, would you believe it?_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Diagon Alley had changed, Draco reflected as he wandered down the street with his mother. Some shops had been boarded up; others had enormous 'wanted' posters of various Death Eaters at large. His aunt winked at him from an apothecary before leering at a family passing by below her. Still other stores had broken windows. Shoddy, makeshift stands manned by seedy-looking wizards sold assortments of protective charms and amulets. People huddled close together in their little groups, not calling out to familiar faces or stopping to talk with passerby. Nobody wanted to call attention to themselves.

He opened the door to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions and held it for his mother to walk in before him. She had taught him to be a gentleman to people of his Pure-Blood class.

Madam Malkin smiled at the customers and said to Draco, "What can I do for you, dear?"

"I just need some new robes," he replied indifferently. He had doubts about the blood rank of Madam Malkin.

"Right away," the woman replied. She led Draco and his mother to the fitting area and had Draco take off his black jacket, revealing his button-up white shirt. She handed him a new black robe, gave Narcissa a chair to sit on, and began to pin up the robe.

After a few minutes, a tinkling bell announced a new patron entering the shop. A moment later, three people appeared in the mirror's reflection, two boys and a girl. One boy had short, messy black hair, green eyes, and round black glasses. Just through his bangs one could see a scar on his forehead shaped like a lightning bolt. The other boy had brilliantly red hair, blue eyes, and freckles dusting his face. The girl…Draco felt his stomach give a tiny lurch as his eyes fell onto the face of his target. Her curly brown hair was tied back into a ponytail and her dark brown eyes looked into his for a moment.

"Well, look who it is," he drawled, "Potty, Weasel, and the brainiac." Normally he would refer to her as 'Mudblood,' but he decided to drop the term for now because of his mission.

"Shut up, ferret," Ron Weasley snapped, stepping in front of Hermione slightly.

"_Make _me, Weasel."

Harry and Ron both suddenly drew their wands and pointed them at him. Draco fought back a grimace; if only he hadn't left his wand in the pocket of the jacket sitting on his mother's lap. They'd have themselves a nice little duel right then and there in the shop.

"Wands away, please!" Madam Malkin cried, looking a little nervous.

"Guys," Hermione whispered, "Don't, he's not worth it." When neither boy lowered his wand, she sighed as reached up to pull their wands back down to their sides.

Draco felt a surge of irritation and sneered, "Yeah, like you'd dare do magic out of school. Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers." He had also noticed that there was an almost perfectly circular bruise around her eye.

"That's quite enough!" Madam Malkin said, frowning. She turned to Draco's mother. "Madam—please—"

Of course she would appeal for someone else's help in her _own shop._ Narcissa stood up, her back straight, her face strong like the awesome mother she was. "Put those away," she said icily. "If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do."

"Really?" Harry asked, stepping towards her. "Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in?"

Draco felt another snarl cross his face. There was a Death Eater willing to 'do him in' right there in the shop. Madam Malkin stammered, "Really, you shouldn't accuse—dangerous thing to say—wands away, please!"

Harry stayed where he was. Narcissa replied, with a chilling, unaffected smile, "I see that being Dumbledore's favorite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you."

Harry looked sardonically around. "Wow…look at that…he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!"

Narcissa went a little white at the mention of her husband's imprisonment. Draco felt fury lick the inside of his stomach and made to jump him, but his robe tripped him up. Over Ron's guffaws he snarled shakily, "Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!"

"It's alright, Draco," Narcissa said, putting a faintly trembling hand on his shoulder. "I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius."

Harry's wand rose again, and Hermione stepped forward, grabbing his arm again. "Harry, no! Think…you mustn't…you'll be in such trouble…"

Stupid, stuck-up, bossy rulebook! Draco felt another surge of annoyance just as Madam Malkin, trying to diffuse the situation, reached toward him.

"I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just—"

Her hand brushed along the inside of his forearm, and the feel of his bandages rubbing against his blistered skin and the still-aching Dark Mark was excruciating.

"Ouch!" He yelled suddenly. He saw her wide eyes and tried to cover up by saying, "Watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother—I don't think I want these anymore—"

As he pulled them off, his mother said, "You're right, Draco. Now I know the kind of scum that shops here…we'll do better at Twilfitt and Tattings."

Draco nodded, took up his coat, and made to leave with his mother. He knocked roughly into Weasley as he passed by and didn't once glace at Harry or Hermione.

He stomped down the street with his mother. After a few minutes, she said, "I believe you overreacted, Draco."

"I did not," Draco replied. "Both of my arms still hurt." He carefully pulled on his jacket and tried to massage the area with his cool fingers, but every touch made it sing with irritation.

Narcissa sighed. "I'll give you a pain relief potion when we get home."

Draco shook his head. "No, I'll live." He didn't want to feel groggy in a potion-induced haze; he had had enough of that for the past two weeks. "I suppose I _did_ overdramatize it, just a bit."

"You acted like a melodramatic Muggle actress. You didn't have to throw the robe onto the floor, at least." Narcissa said. "I believe I raised you a little better than that."

Draco gave a tiny chuckle and a smile. "You did." He removed his supplies list from his pocket and checked it over. "There's not much else I need, we'll be done soon."

They got him new robes in Knockturn Alley, then returned to Diagon Alley for the better Apothecaries. After restocking his Potions set he got himself some new Quidditch gloves at Quality Quidditch Supplies. He noticed that his mother looked very tired as they exited the shop and he stopped her.

"Mother," he said, "You look exhausted. How about you go to the Leaky Cauldron and get some tea and I'll finish shopping by myself? I only have Flourish and Blotts to go to. I won't be long."

"Are you sure?" She asked wearily.

"I'm sixteen. I'll be fine." He took a step back and gave a small wave. "I'll be there soon."

He turned and walked down the cobblestone street to the bookstore. Draco had never been an avid reader, but he had always liked Flourish and Blotts. It was full of all types of books: spellbooks, textbooks, children's books, fiction and nonfiction, reference. Some had bejeweled or silk covers, some were leather bound, and some had no covers at all.

He spoke to the manager and soon had new copies of his required textbooks, including _Advanced Transfiguration, Advanced Potions, _and _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six. _He tucked them under his arm and browsed the aisles for a few minutes, thinking that he would spend extra time there in order to give his mother time to relax. As he turned down an aisle he caught sight of the Mudblood, leaning on the bookshelf with her nose buried in a book.

How typical and atypical of her. Typical because she always seemed to have a book on her, atypical because he thought she never went anywhere without her boy toys. A large sign flashing "OPPORTUNITY" lit up in his head.

He began walking toward her, trying to think of something Slytherin-like to say, and noticed that her black eye was gone.

"Got your eye fixed, did you, Granger?" He said by way of greeting.

She looked up at him through long eyelashes."Brilliant observation, ferret," she replied sarcastically.

He felt another surge of annoyance at hearing her call him the same offensive nickname Weasley had. "Ditched your friends, have you?"

"Ditched, no. Left at Quality Quidditch Supplies, yes," she replied, not looking at him. "I wanted to find a new book to read."

"What, because you didn't read enough during the summer?"

Hermione flushed and slammed the book shut. She looked up at him and demanded, "What are you doing here?"

"Buying books," Draco replied, enunciating each syllable as if she was mentally impaired. Holding up his textbooks, he added, "It's a _bookstore_, after all."

"Fascinating. Have you finished your holiday work yet?" She asked.

"God, Granger, aren't you anal enough about work during school? Do you really have to be the same during break?" Draco asked irritably.

Hermione colored high up on her cheekbones. "How dare you! And here I was actually considering—" she stopped.

Despite himself, Draco was curious. "You were considering what, exactly?"

Hermione made a facial expression that made it look like she was chewing her tongue. "Apologizing."

Draco was taken aback. "For what?"

She avoided his eyes and studied the spines of the books on the shelf. "For what Harry said to your mother. I mean, you're still a vile cockroach, but he didn't have to talk to your mother like that."

"It wasn't your fault," Draco said, still thoroughly confused. He tried to follow her logic for apologizing for something she'd had nothing to do with but couldn't. Shrugging it off as her stupid Gryffindor/Mudblood personality, he said, "Why are you apologizing?"

"Because Harry wouldn't. He's just been really upset since Sirius died, maybe he wasn't thinking straight. But that doesn't make it right." Hermione replied shortly.

"I don't want your worthless apologies, Granger," Draco snapped. He remembered his mother's trembling fingers on his shoulder. She never showed it, but he knew that his father's arrest was killing her on the inside.

Hermione went red again and stuffed the book back onto the shelf. "Fine, then," she said in a voice that shook slightly. Draco wasn't sure if it was because he had upset her or because she was angry. "Suit yourself. I'd thought you might be a little humbled by Harry throwing your father in prison, but clearly I was wrong!"

"Knocks you down a peg, doesn't it, being wrong," Draco sneered. "And you'd think that Potter would be a bit humbled by his beloved Godfather's death—"

"Of course he wouldn't!" Hermione interrupted, her voice beginning to rise. "Harry can't even remember his parents, do you have any idea how much losing Sirius is hurting him? Wait, of course you don't; you don't care!"

"Brilliant deduction, Granger," Draco mocked, his voice rising as well. "But you're being quite defensive of Potter, aren't you?"

"I—well—but—excuse me?" Hermione spluttered at his implications. "What does my relationship with Harry have anything to do with it? He's been my best friend for five years!"

"Doesn't that make you feel special." Draco was feeling more and more irritated by the moment. "What about the Weasel, eh? He jumped right in front of you earlier, I noticed."

He had crossed the line and touched a nerve. As her face blushed scarlet, her hand twitched, either to grab her wand or to simply slap him across the face. But she took a deep breath and met his gray eyes with the dignified expression he was so used to seeing on her face.

"I'd blast you across the shop," she said in a low voice, "but I'd rather not damage any books."

They glared at each other with smoldering eyes for a few more moments before she stepped around him and walked away. Draco didn't turn to look after her, he just listened to her footsteps as they faded away. He heaved a sigh and smoothed his gelled hair, leaning on the bookshelf. He picked up the book she had been reading, something about a type of magic used for destroying Dark Objects. He slid it back onto the shelf and sighed again.

"Well, that went well," he muttered before leaving the shop to meet his mother at the Leaky Cauldron.

The pub had changed as well. It had once been loud and bright, full of customers having a quick drink and a bite to eat after a day of shopping. Today the pub was nearly empty and very quiet. His mother was sitting near the back of the large dining area, a half-finished cup of chamomile tea in front of her. When she saw her son, she put a forced-looking smile on her face despite her reddish eyes.

"Did you get everything you needed?" She asked.

"Yes." Draco nodded and he looked down at the small candle sitting in the middle of the table. He chose not to mention seeing his Target. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine, son, I'm just tired," Narcissa said. "Let's go right after I finish, do you mind?"

"No, not at all," Draco said. He sat with his mother in companionable silence, she drinking her tea, he flicking through his new textbooks. The sound of a large group of people came from the door from Diagon Alley, and the whole Potter Party came through: the great oaf, Hagrid, his former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Mad-Eye Moody, the entire blood traitor family, Potter himself, and the Mudblood. His gray eyes narrowed as he watched her progress across the room. His mother didn't notice his wandering attention, and this time he watched her walk out of the restaurant and down the street until she faded from view.

* * *

With a faint grunt and a heave, Draco lifted his trunk into the luggage compartment near the back of the train. He adjusted his robes and straightened his green and silver striped Slytherin tie. He had Apparated to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters with his mother via side-along Apparition, so now he wouldn't have to change on the train with Pansy gawking at him. He returned to his mother, who liked like she had been wrestling with her thought in his absence.

That was the thing about her. Narcissa acted indifferent and proud on the outside, but inside she was shaking. She acted like nothing was amiss and nothing was wrong when people were around, but when she was alone Draco knew she cried. Her family had been publicly shamed; her husband was in prison and she had no idea when or if she would see him again; her sixteen-year-old son was paying the price for his father's so-called 'mistakes' and was due to kill a classmate in less than a year, and she was powerless to do anything or fight against it. The Malfoy family had been torn apart by the man they had once devoutly followed like a deity. But she had to hold on to what she had left, so she would support her son no matter what. Draco rather wished she would one day show Voldemort this strength.

She hugged him tightly. "Have a good term, Draco. I'll see you for Christmas."

Draco squirmed away, not wanting his Slytherin friends to see him. It was fine to act like a mama's boy at home, but being surrounded by his classmates changed the story. However, he gave his mother a tiny smile and said, "I'll write to you, mum. I love you."

She smiled back at him and touched his cheek along his new, nearly invisible scar, and Draco left and boarded the train. After wandering the carriages for a few minutes he came to a compartment occupied by his fellow Slytherins. There were three boys and one girl, all dressed in their robes already. Two of the boys were tall, muscle-bound, and mean looking. The third boy was slim with angular features and slanted brown eyes. The girl had a pug-like face and dark hair.

When he entered the compartment, the girl let out a loud squeal and tackled him in a hug, cracking his back. "Draco!" she cried.

The boys, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle sniggered as Draco said, "Hello to you, too, Parkinson." He squirmed away from her and straightened his robes for the second time in ten minutes.

"Good holiday, Malfoy?" Zabini asked boredly.

Draco gave a noncommental shrug and sat down. "How were your O.W.L.s?"

Pansy began to reel off her grades, annoyingly proud for someone who got mainly A's; Zabini said "I didn't fail anything" and left it at that; Crabbe and Goyle ticked off their grades on their fingers, frowns on their faces as they did so.

"I got a 'P' in Transfiguration, what'll McGonagall say?"

"Can you take the N.E.W.T.s Charms course with a 'D?'"

"And that 'D' on Potions—"

"And my 'P' in Astronomy—"

Draco and Zabini exchanged looks. Zabini asked, "Did you pass _anything?"_

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged looks and said together, "Not really. We were highest in Care of Magical Creatures."

"What, the oaf actually taught you something?" Draco asked sarcastically. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled trollishly, misinterpreting his comment as an insult targeted at their former professor. Draco rolled his eyes at his friends' idiocy.

"Well, it's a good thing you're attractive," Zabini said dryly. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled again, and Draco was hard put not to bash his head against the window. Were his best friends really _this _stupid?

"Oh, Draco!" Pansy gasp interrupted his thoughts. "We have to get to the prefect's carriage for our meeting!"

"Oh, goody," Draco muttered, standing up. To Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle, he said, "See you later."

They bid him good-bye and he held the door open for Pansy, again with his chivalry for ladies of his class. Though he could think of several other life forms more ladylike than his companion. Like real pugs.

They went to the front of the train to a carriage that was modeled like a dining car. There were no separate compartments, but there were tables on either side of the aisle. He and Pansy were the last ones there, and they received reproachful looks from the Head Boy and Girl as they sat down. Most of the tables were filled, so he stood leaning back against the door he had just come through.

The Head Girl began her speech, but Draco didn't listen any longer than twenty seconds. For one, the Head Girl was Half-Blood, so he was above her; for another, he knew all of this stuff. As Prefect he was to patrol the corridors at his appointed time, unless he had too much homework, and in that case he had to get someone to cover for him. He had the power to put people in detention if they didn't follow the rules. He had to set a good example, blah blah, yadda yadda.

He looked around the room at the new fifth-year prefects and the returning seventh-year prefects. He knew all of the sixth-year prefects, of course. There was himself and Pansy Parkinson from Slytherin, Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff, Terry Boot and Padma Patil from Ravenclaw, Weasel and the Target from Gryffindor.

Draco's eyes narrowed as he studied her. She never glanced at him, focusing instead on the Heads' speech as if she'd never heard the rules of being a prefect before. The Mudblood was still dressed in her muggle clothing: the blue pants he thought were called "megs" or something and a slim-fitting pale blue t-shirt. If she had been walking down a muggle street no one would ever have thought she was a witch. Of course, she shouldn't be a witch anyway.

"So this is what we'll do today," the Head Boy's loud voice boomed out, jolting Draco's attention from Granger. He looked at the Head as the seventh-year continued, "Fifth years can go back to their cabins for the rest of the journey. Seventh years will patrol the corridors on the second half of the ride, sixth years the first. We should have two of you stay here in this compartment as a base."

"I'll stay," Hermione immediately volunteered.

"I will, too," Draco said before anyone else could speak up, thinking he could give his mission another go. Everybody in the cabin stared at him, surprised at him.

"No, I will," Ron said, looking at Draco suspiciously. Draco shot him a death glare

"Hermione?" The Head Boy asked, "Do you mind who stays?"

Hermione shrugged. "No, I don't, actually."

Draco smirked and sat in a chair, making the decision clear. The others filed out of the carriage and Weasel went to Granger and the two proceeded to speak in voices too low for him to hear. After a minute or two he left. Draco, who had been eyeing their conversation, couldn't miss the way her eyes watched his back as he walked away. This observation annoyed him a bit.

For a few minutes the cabin was silent. Hermione had (surprise, surprise) taken out a book and was now reading. Draco alternated between looking out the window at the passing scenery and glancing at her. He wondered how he could excuse his attempts to talk to her now and decided that a little small talk wouldn't seem too odd since they were alone . And he was getting bored.

Acting as if this was totally normal, he got up, crossed the cabin, and slid into the seat opposite hers. "So, how was your summer?"

For a moment he thought she had ignored him. Then she looked up, confusion on her face that quickly turned to suspicion and hostility. "I can't believe you have the nerve to talk to me after what happened in Diagon Alley."

"What, our little fight? How was that different from our normal communications?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "You never go on about my 'nerve' any other time."

"I always thought it went unsaid." She paused. "And do you honestly expect me to believe you're actually _interested _in my break?"

"I'm bored and I've nothing else to do. If you have anything better for me to do that doesn't involve a two thousand page book or some homework, I'm all ears."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, considering him, before sliding a bookmark into the pages of her book, Setting it aside, she replied shortly, "It was alright. Spent a month at Mum and Dad's before going to Ron's with Harry."

"You spend your break with the people you spend ten months out of the year with?" Draco snorted.

"Yes, I do," Hermione snapped. "What did you do?"

_Become a Death Eater and receive orders to kill you, _he thought. However, what he said was, "Nothing special, just stayed home with mum."

Hermione looked surprised. "You didn't see Crabbe or Goyle?"

"_Merlin, _no!" Draco said. "I can barely stand them during school, why would I spend my break with them?"

Hermione was taken aback. "But I thought…aren't they your friends?"

"Eh. Not really," Draco said. "Sometimes I think they just hang around me because I'm rich, talented and good-looking."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What a tragedy. I never would have thought you had the capacity for such angst, Malfoy."

Draco recalled his friends' idiotic remarks from the cabin earlier and suddenly said, "It's not angst, it's just annoying. Those guys aren't my friends, I can never go to them if something bothers me, and they wouldn't get it. They're just two idiots who laugh at everything I say and rarely have a bloody clue what's going on."

As he concluded his little rant, Draco realized two things. The first was that his position had changed; he had gone from laid-back listlessness to sitting on the edge of his seat, his hands folded on the table, leaning towards her as he looked her right in the eye. The second thing was what he had actually told her. He had never been one to let out his feelings, any at all, and now he had spilled his guts to a) the girl he had antagonized since age eleven, and b) been ordered to murder.

Her lips had parted very slightly and he knew that, despite herself, her pity had been stirred. "I'm sorry," she said in a low voice.

Draco sat back, practically pushing his back into the seat to get as far from her as possible. "I don't want your sympathy or your apologies," he said tonelessly.

Hermione frowned. "Fine, then. Whatever."

She took up her book again. After a second Draco stood and returned to his seat. For the rest of their hour together neither of them spoke. Hermione, for all sakes and purposes, appeared to have forgotten he was even there. Draco tried to ignore her just as resolutely, but he glanced at her every five minutes or so. He couldn't figure out whether or not he'd just messed up any potential progress he could have made.

Finally the door opened and Ernie and Ron entered. The boys went over to speak to Hermione, completely ignoring Draco. He stood up and straightened his robes, making sure his white shirt was still tucked in and his tie wasn't crooked. He turned to go to the door and accidentally bumped into Hermione.

She glared up at him with one disdaining look and left, her back straight and her head high. Draco frowned slightly as he left after her. That answered his question, though he wondered why he was just figuring this out now. Had he thought he could just earn her trust and kill her by Valentine's Day? He had been cruel to the girl for a solid six years straight. She hated him, with every particle in her being.

He suddenly realized just how difficult his mission was going to be.

* * *

_Amv: WOOT, this was fun! I'm seriously loving this! Please review!_


	3. Return to Hogwarts

_Amv: I'm sorry Chapter Three's been so long coming, but I hope I can make up for that because this chapter's just over 4,000 words. This has some verbatim stuff from the book, but I hope you enjoy. _

_I don't own Harry Potter, and no copyright infringement is intended._

**Chapter Three**

When Draco returned to the carriage, he found Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle having a half-hearted discussion about Quidditch. Before that summer, the four boys and Avery Nott had participated in a summer-long Quidditch program, though they were never on the same team because they lived so far apart. Since Draco's father had been sent to Azkaban, he had decided to skip it that year and stay home for his mother. He sat next to Zabini and joined their lackluster conversation. Zabini was only a mediocre Quidditch player, but Crabbe and Goyle had improved their skills so much over the summer that they were seriously considering joining the school team.

Their conversation dragged on for a few more minutes until the carriage door opened and a third-year girl came in, holding a small satchel of little rolled up pieces of parchment. She removed one and, after glancing at it, said, "Is Blaise Zabini here?"

"That's me." Zabini reached over and took it without thanks. He cracked the wax seal with his fingernail and read aloud, "'Mr. Zabini I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C. Sincerely, Professor H.E.J. Slughorn.'"

"Slughorn?" Crabbe said, putting his eyebrows together in confusion, "Who's he? Is he a teacher?"

"No, I'm sure he's the bloke who sold me that crappy watch on a street corner in Knockturn Alley," Zabini replied seriously.

Crabbe actually nodded, as if that made perfect sense. Again, Draco had to exercise a lot of self-control not to bang his head on the glass window.

Zabini stuffed the parchment in his pocket and stood up. "Well, I'll see you later, then."

"What, you're going?" Draco said.

Zabini gave him a look. "But of course. Who am I to refuse a request from a new teacher asking me to _go _to him?"

Draco picked up on his emphasis of the word "go" and realized he was just leaving to get away from Crabbe and Goyle. Zabini smirked and left.

Now that Draco was left at the mercy of his friends, he also tried to figure out a way to get away from them. The only thing he could think of was to pull a Granger and take out _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six _and begin to study the theory to nonverbal spells. Fortunately for him this proved to be both interesting and challenging, so it was easy to tune out Crabbe and Goyle's stupid-sounding guffaws. It was also easy to ignore Pansy when she returned, except for when she shoved a Chocolate Frog under his nose. That damn candy was his absolute weakness, and he was still missing Titania from his cards collection. He spent a small amount of time meditating, for the thousandth time, whether or not she _really _counted as a witch because she was Queen of the Fairies, but he made his usual conclusion that he didn't make the rules.

After a few hours, Zabini finally returned. Draco noticed that he had a bit of trouble with the door before it suddenly flew open, knocking him onto Goyle in a comically intimate position. As Goyle threw him off and the two stared each other down, Draco felt an odd sensation on his knee, as if it had been brushed by a small waterfall without getting wet. He looked over and caught sight of a disembodied foot as it swung up onto the luggage rack before vanishing.

_What the hell was that? _Draco wondered as the two finally sat down, Goyle looking more trollish than usual, Zabini looking like a peacock with its feathers ruffled. He tried to calm down his fellow Slytherin, saying, "So, Zabini, what did Slughorn want?"

"Just trying to make up to well-known people. Not that he managed to find many." He glared over a Goyle again.

Their argument grated on his temper, which had been short since he had been in the carriage with the Mudblood. "Who else had he invited?"

"McLaggen from Gryffindor."

The name struck a chord in Draco's memory. "Oh yeah, his uncle's big in the Ministry."

"—Someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw—"

"Not him, he's a prat!" Pansy interrupted.

"—And Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl."

Draco snorted. "He invited _Longbottom?"_

"Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there," Zabini said.

"What's Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?"

Zabini shrugged, uncaring, and Draco continued, "Potter, precious Potter, obviously he wanted to look at '_The Chosen One,' _but that Weasley girl! What's so special about _her?"_

"A lot of boys like her." Pansy was always up-to-date on the latest gossip. Draco didn't know how she always knew who liked whom or what everyone's grades on homework was, but she did. He noticed Pansy looking at him out of the corner of her eye, as if waiting to see him blush. "Even you think she's good-looking, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please!" She sounded a little jealous of the Weaselette.

"I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like." Zabini's voice was like ice, but Pansy looked happy at the words.

"Well, I pity Slughorn's taste," Draco said. "Maybe he's going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favorite of his." His father used to be a lot of things. Pushing that thought aside, he went on: "Slughorn probably hasn't heard I'm on the train, or—"

"I wouldn't bank on an invitation. He asked me about Nott's father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he'd been caught at the ministry he didn't look happy, and Nott didn't get an invitation, did he? I don't think Slughorn's interested in Death Eaters." Zabini's words, a verbal slap in the face about Draco's own father, hit him hard. Draco was hard put to force a laugh.

"Well, who cares what he's interested in? What is he, when you come to it? Just some stupid teacher." He yawned to show the depth of his carelessness. "I mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what's it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?"

The words were true. Since his run-in with the Mudblood in Flourish and Blotts, he had been wondering what he would do after that year. Supposing he didn't get caught, could he still remain at school, where clues and her former classmates remained? He knew no one was going to miss the fact that he was going to talk to her more that year. But then again, would leaving right after her murder look suspicious?

"What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?" Pansy's demand pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Well, you know. I might have—er—moved on to bigger and better things." Like killing more Mudbloods, he reflected. He remembered that sick, dirty feeling he had had after killing that goblin, but he pushed it aside. He would have plenty of time to forget that feeling, and he knew he could never back down from Voldemort's mission. He realized his friends, hanging on tenterhooks, had leaned in to listen and one of them had asked, "Do you mean—_Him?"_

He shrugged. "Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don't see it as that important these days." A lie after studying nonverbal spells for three hours. "I mean, think about it…When the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone's got? Of course he isn't…" Take that, Granger. Then again, she'd be dead by then, so it wouldn't matter. "It'll be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown."

Zabini was skeptic. "And you think _you'll _be able to do something for him? Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?"

"I've just said, haven't I? Maybe he doesn't care if I'm not qualified." Not that it mattered if he was of age or not. "Maybe the job he wants me to do isn't something you need to be qualified for." Anyone can kill, Draco thought. Wasn't that written somewhere?

The others stared at him, and Draco smirked. He wondered if they were jealous or curious or both. He wondered how he would feel if someone else had told him that. Not knowing the truth and the real horror of it, he was sure he'd think it was sensational.

"I can see Hogwarts," he said normally. "You should grab your bags."

The others assented and stood up. Draco swore he heard someone gasp as Crabbe pulled down his suitcase, and he thought he saw it bounce up as if it made contact with something invisible. A memory stirred in his mind; was someone sitting up in the rack, wearing an invisibility cloak? And then he remembered: he knew only one person who owned an invisibility cloak.

The train slowed and finally stopped at Hogsmeade station. The others left in the carriage, Crabbe shoving some second year girls out of the way like the bully he was. Draco couldn't deny that his supposed best friend was a thug. So long as that thug-ness didn't affect him, he didn't care. Pansy looked at him and offered her hand. Draco fought back a grimace of distaste and refrained from telling her to try and make Zabini jealous with someone else.

"You go on," he said. Pansy left, and for a few moments the carriage was silent. In a quick, smooth motion, he turned to the luggage rack, drew his wand, and said, _"Perficus Totalus!"_

Almost immediately, there was the sound of someone freezing. Then they fell out of the rack, the cloak falling away. Draco looked down at Harry Potter and felt an odd mixture of anger, incredulity, and triumph.

"I knew it," He said. "I heard Goyle's trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back. You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter, but while I've got you here…"

He stomped hard on Potter's face and felt his nose break. The blood almost instantly began to flow. Potter glared up at him in outrage and hatred, as if _he _was the one who had been overheard.

"That's from my father," Draco snarled. "Now let's see…" He took the invisibility cloak and threw it over him, watching as Potter vanished. "I don't reckon they'll find you till the train's back in London. I'll see you around, Potter…or not."

He left the carriage and managed to jump into a horseless carriage with Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle just before it set off.

"What took you?" Zabini asked.

Draco shrugged. His revenge on Potter was his alone, not to be shared with his fellow Slytherins.

"Malfoy," Zabini leaned forward and narrowed his slanted eyes. "What were you talking about in the carriage? Are you doing something for the Dark Lord? Are you…?"

Draco smirked. "Jealous, Zabini?"

The black boy leaned back, taking Draco's words as confirmation. Crabbe and Goyle gaped at him, awestruck.

"What does he want you to do?" Crabbe asked.

Draco paused, wondering how much, if any, to reveal. "Later."

The carriage stopped, and just before he led the way out, he added fiercely, "And don't mention it during dinner." The last thing he needed was Pansy catching wind of it.

He led them up the stairs and into the warm entrance hall. They turned left to enter the Great Hall, its splendid, five long tables illuminated by the hundreds of floating candles. After taking his usual seat at the Slytherin table, he glanced up at the magical ceiling that copied the night sky. Then he cast his attention towards the Head Table, where most of the teachers were assembled. In fact, the only two missing were the Transfiguration teacher Professor McGonagall, who was probably preparing the first years for sorting, and Professor Snape.

"Psst. Draco," Crabbe hissed.

"Later," Draco snapped, annoyed. Pansy and her friends sat next to him and they immediately struck up a conversation as the rest of the Hall filled. His eyes followed the Mudblood as she sat down with the Weasel, Weaselette, and Longbottom. She looked a little worried and kept glancing at the door, as if hoping for Potter to come in.

_Precious Potter, _Draco thought with a twinge of bitterness. He pushed thoughts of the uppity Gryffindors aside as Professor McGonagall came into the room, leading a long line of first years. They all looked around, awestruck at the room's proportions, looking at their feet and blushing should they happen to meet an upperclassman's eye. The Charms teacher, Professor Flitwick, cam in with a three-legged stool and the Sorting Hat.

The room fell silent, and then many first years gasped as the rip in the brim of the hat opened, and the Sorting Hat began its annual song. Like every year, the Hat detailed the defining characteristics of each House, and like last year, the Hat warned the school (in rhyme) to stand united against adversaries. The students clapped, and McGonagall took up the list of first years to be called to the stool.

"When I call your name, you will come to the stool, and I will place the Sorting Hat on your head." Despite her age, her voice still carried clearly across the Hall.

Ever since his second year, the Sorting had brought Draco back to the day the hat had been placed on his own head. Unlike the others in line with him, he'd never had a shadow of a doubt as to his placement; and he still remembered the smirk he had felt cross his face as the Hat yelled "SLYTHERIN!" for all to hear. He had caught the eye of a small bushy-haired girl who had immediately looked away. He hadn't spoken to her on the train, nor did he ever speak to Hermione Granger until he had learned her Mudblood blood status. But it hadn't been until he lay in his bed in his dormitory that night, his suppressed whirlwind of excited feelings finally subsiding, that he realized that the Hat had left a message in his head.

An explosion of cheering around him announced a new member of their House, and Draco belatedly joined in. He focused on the rest of the Sorting, and finally it ended. He suddenly realized how hungry he was; those chocolate frogs Pansy had forced on him seemed to have been digested long ago.

The golden platters and jugs filled with food and drink. After Crabbe and Goyle had loaded their plates, Draco pulled some platters toward his plate and helped himself as well. His group of friends was quiet and focused on their food. The only attempt at conversation came from Goyle, who asked in a low voice, "Who?"

"For the love of Merlin, Goyle, LATER!" Draco snapped through a mouthful of potato.

They were silent again until the desserts appeared to replace the food, until one of Pansy's friends whispered loudly, "What happened to _him?"_ She was pointing to the door. Draco followed her finger and saw Potter walking quickly down the aisle between the tables to his friends, his face and shirt coated in dried blood. Unfortunately, someone appeared to have healed his broken nose. Oh, and he looked really, _really _pissed.

_That's what you get for throwing my father in jail, _Draco thought as he returned to his food.

At last, the remnants of treacle tart faded away from Draco's plate just as the Headmaster stood. The entire Hall went respectfully quiet as the old man with long silver hair smiled at the room.

"The very best of evenings to you!" he said, expanding his arms in welcome.

Pansy gasped; Zabini's narrow eyes went even narrower; Goyle muttered, "His arm wasn't like that last year, was it?"

Draco didn't reply as his stomach churned sickeningly. Dumbledore's rights had was black, shriveled-looking, dead, as if he had exchanged it with an old, rotting corpse.

Dumbledore shook his arm to cover his hand with his sleeve. "Nothing to worry about. Now…to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year of magical education awaits you…"

"What happened to his _hand?"_ Pansy wondered loudly.

"Maybe he touched one too many Mudbloods over break," Zabini suggested.

Draco and the other Slytherins who heard him laughed as Dumbledore continued, "…and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."

Ah, it was every student's dream to be able to piss off Filch even after leaving Hogwarts, Draco reflected.

"Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise.

"We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn"—and enormously fat old man with no hair but a large mustache stood—"is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post as Potions master."

"Potions?"

"_Potions?"_

Even Zabini looked surprised; Goyle muttered to Draco, "But…Snape's Potions master."

"Obviously not anymore," Draco muttered back.

"Professor Snape, meanwhile, will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore continued, raising his voice to be heard.

"No!" Potter half-yelled from the Gryffindor table.

"He has spoken," Zabini said with sarcastic reverence, nodding over to Potter. Draco snickered and joined in the cheering. The new D.A.D.A. teacher raised a hand as if he didn't care, but there was a tiny smirk of triumph on Snape's lips.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and waited for quiet before continuing: "Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining strength.

_Yeah, yeah, whatever. _Draco rolled his eyes, not caring about followers outside of Hogwarts because he was one inside the castle walls. He pulled out his wand to try those new nonverbal spells. In a swish and flick of his wand, the fork began to levitate a few inches above the table. He allowed the Headmaster's words to wash over him.

"I cannot emphasize how strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe. The castle's magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security restrictions that your teachers might impose upon you, however irksome you might find them—in particular, the rule that you are not to be out of bed after hours. I implore you, should you notice anything strange or suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of the staff immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with utmost regard to your own and others' safety."

_Except for killing Mudbloods, you doddery old fool, _Draco thought.

Dumbledore smiled, dispelling the tenseness his words had produced. "But now, your bed await, warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow." ("Yeah, if you're a Ravenclaw," Zabini muttered to Pansy, who nodded frantically in agreement) "Let us therefore say goodnight. Pip pip!"

_Pip you, _Draco thought as he relaxed the spell and sent the fork clattering back onto the table. Leaving the fifth-year prefect to lead the first years to the dungeons, Draco lead the way through the halls with Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Nott following. The Head Boy had told him the password, so when they reached the stretch of stone that concealed the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room, he said, "Pig Farts."

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled as the stone melted away, and they stepped through. The Common Room looked the way it always did, with black tile floors, a black marble fireplace, and green lamps around the room. There were comfortable green or black leather chairs or sofas and desks for students to do homework. He saw Pansy and her friends sitting by the fire; she saw him and his friends and excitedly waved them over. Draco shook his head and went down the stairs to the room with a plaque labeled "Sixth Years."

Five four-poster beds of dark mahogany wood, crisp white sheets, and green comforters greeted him, in addition to their trunks at the foot of each bed. Draco located hi trunk next to the bed between Zabini's and Goyle's, and immediately began to get ready for bed. The others did the same.

Draco sat on his bed just as Zabini said, "You can't leave us hanging forever, Malfoy."

Nott frowned, confused. "What're you talking about, Zabini?"

"Malfoy told us a little tale on the train," Zabini replied. He narrowed his eyes at Draco, as if taunting him. "Said something that made us think the Dark Lord gave him a mission."

Nott sat up straight. "Prove it."

"Why should I?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. "Don't want my roommates getting hurt, do I?"

"Don't joke, Malfoy," Nott snapped. "Is it true or isn't it?"

The room was silent for a few tense moments. Finally it was broken by Crabbe saying, "Malfoy, why is your arm bandaged?"

Every eye in the room turned to Draco's left forearm. It was still bandaged because the blisters from Bellatrix's hex had taken longer to heal than on his right arm. He still wondered whether or not they were taking so long to heal because of the Mark.

Draco watched as understanding dawned on the faces of his fellow Slytherins. A wordless communication passed between them, and Draco undid the knot and unwrapped the bandage. The others held their breath as the last layer came away and the black mark appeared. The image, surrounded by the pale pink burns that had yet to fade away, contrasted even more sharply with his pale skin tone than usual because of the single lit lamp. For an interminable time, the others stared.

"What's it like, getting that?" Goyle asked.

Draco paused as he flashbacked. Voldemort asking him for his arm, feeling the cool tip of his wand on his skin. The shock of the first burning pain, that all-consuming fire. More memories came back: Bellatrix's curse, her slicing his face. The lifeless eyes of the goblin staring into his own. Voldemort penetrating his mind and seeing his memories. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "It…it wasn't easy."

The room was quiet. Zabini nodded and went to his bed, saying, "Alright, then. We should get some sleep, we've a long day tomorrow."

Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle followed his example, nodding in agreement. Draco drew back his bedcovers and lay on his pillows after pulling the curtains closed. The dorm was quiet until Nott asked, "What does he want you to do?"

Draco hesitated. "Keep an eye on someone."

"Potter?" Goyle guessed.

"…the Mudblood." Draco said softly.

There was a pause. Zabini said, "Well, that sucks."

The others chuckled, but Draco said, "You two can't breathe a word of this to anyone, you hear me?"

"We wouldn't say anything," Crabbe said simply. "Who would believe us? Who would we tell?"

"It's not like we like the Mudblood or anything," Zabini said dismissively.

Draco forced a laugh and folded his arms under his head. He felt strangely cut off from his friends; in their eyes, the start of the year was a return to normalcy. To him, it was time to start the countdown. He wondered what his friends would have said if he'd confided the entirety of his mission.

Lying in his bed, his arms crossed below his head to create a sort of pillow, surrounded by his roommates' snores, made him recall the events of that night five years ago today. He could hear the Hat's message in his head, two lines that he had never forgotten.

"_White snake with a twisted fate,_

_Which way will he go?—even I don't know._

Sine that day, Draco found he had a strong aversion to singing, rhyming hats.

* * *

_Amv: See? It's not bad! Can't wait for the next chapter. Please Review!_


	4. Amortentia

_Amv: Hi! It's great to be back! I'm sure y'all just want me to stop talking and read the chapter, so I'll just say I don't own Harry Potter! I hope this is worth the ridiculously long wait!_

**Chapter Four**

Draco was first to wake up, as usual. He had always been an early riser, and he was the only person in his room to shower before class. He went to the prefect's bathroom and was happy to have it all to himself. When he was done showering he pulled on his long-sleeved, button-up shirt, black trousers, and loosely tied his tie. He used a drying charm on his hair and then slicked it back with Sleakeazy's Gel. He returned to the dorm to grab his bag and long black robe and shot Nott, the only one showing signs of life, a quick nod. Then he went to the Great Hall for breakfast.

He was halfway through a bowl of cereal when Crabbe and Goyle came downstairs. They sat across from him, muttering their "Good morning's" before pulling platters of eggs and sausages towards their plates and helping themselves. After another minute or so, Zabini came downstairs as well. Their section of the table was quiet for a few minutes until Crabbe spoke:

"Malfoy…I've been thinking."

"That's dangerous," Zabini murmured into his coffee cup prior to taking a sip.

Crabbe either didn't hear his comment or chose to ignore it, continuing, "Is there anything we can do to help you in your mission?"

"Like what?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Like…Like tell whether or not she's on to you, or whether or not, or if she's looking at you funny."

Draco doubted that his friends could be that perceptive, but he shrugged like he didn't care and said, "Do what you'd like."

"Okay," Goyle said through a mouthful of eggs. He swallowed and added, "She's looking at you right now."

"Is she?" Draco turned his head to the side so quickly he cricked his neck. He gave a short "Ah!" of pain and put a hand to the spot. This time he turned more slowly. The Target had a look of disgust on her face as she looked at the Weasel, probably because he's stuffed a whole fried egg in his mouth, or something.

He turned to glare at Goyle. "She isn't looking over here!" His neck was throbbing.

"Well, when you make such a show of turning around, of course she's going to look away," Zabini intoned as he spread jam over a slice of toast. "And _what,_ may I inquire, was _that _about?"

"She is my _target" _Draco said huffily. "I have to know if she's catching on to me."

"If she's onto you on day one, then you're a terrible spy," was the Slytherin's offhand reply.

Draco grimaced. "Shut up, Zabini."

The rest of breakfast passed uneventfully. The other students left to go to their classes but the sixth years remained, waiting to receive their new schedules. Snape moved slowly along the table, discussing classes with the other students. As he went over Crabbe and Goyles' limited options, Draco watched McGonagall spoke to The Mudblood for a minute before giving her her new schedule. The girl rushed off, looking far too excited for an hour-long, impossibly difficult class, her array of curls swinging after each step she took.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Snape said. Draco gave an imperceptible start and looked up at his former potions master. "When you're ready, perhaps we could discuss your schedule?"

Draco put up a brilliant smirk. "Whenever you're ready, professor."

Snape glanced at his notes. "You performed very well, second in the year." He met Draco's eyes, and his suspicions that the number-one student and the Target were one and the same were confirmed. "I see you signed up for Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, and Herbology. You qualify for all of them."

"Great," Draco replied.

Snape tapped a blank schedule and its small boxes magically filled with neat, crisp writing. Draco reached out to take it, but the teacher didn't let go at first. "Are you still unsure about what you want to do after Hogwarts?"

Draco was surprised at the question and looked down at the paper between them without seeing it. "Yes, sir, I am."

Snape didn't reply and released the schedule. Draco grabbed his bag and left the hall. He studied the schedule: he had a free period now, after break, and after lunch. Excellent, it looked like he had plenty of time to do work throughout the day.

He stayed in the common room with Zabini for forty-five minutes before going upstairs to wait outside Snape's new classroom. He leaned against the wall and watched with mild humor as the Mudblood came round the corner, holding an armful of books that probably weighed as much as she did. It was only second period on the first day, and she already looked ready to have a nervous breakdown.

"We've got so much homework for Runes!" Draco overheard her say to Potty and the Weasel. "A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I have to read these by Wednesday!"

"Shame." The Weasel yawned carelessly like the excellent friend he was.

She looked a little hurt at his offhand manner. "You wait. I bet Snape gives us loads."

At that moment, the teacher exited his classroom and studied his new class. The students stopped speaking as one. He jerked his head toward the door slightly. "Inside."

They entered. The room was downright depressing: the windows were covered by curtains and the stone walls were illuminated by candlelight. There were pictures on the walls of people with horrible injuries or who were screaming in pain. Draco stared at a picture of a bloody mass on the wall next to his desk, a chill running down his spine.

"I have not asked you to take out your books," Snape's voice made Draco jump slightly and he refocused his attention on the professor. "I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention.

"You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe. Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be much more advanced.

"The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."

_Like the Dark Lord, _Draco reflected. When he was younger, he had heard his father telling his mother that the Dark Lord would one day return because, for some reason, he could not be killed. At that age, he had thought his father was indestructible, too. Snape's voice again interrupted his meditations:

"Your defenses must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse, feel the Dementor's Kiss, or provoke the aggression of the Inferious." He had stopped next to Draco's desk after indicating each picture, so he now knew exactly what was in that photo. He still refused to look at it again.

"Has an Inferious been seen, then?" came the frightened voice of Parvati Patil. "Is it definite, is he using them?"

"The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past, which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now," he changed the subject, "You are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?"

Surprising nobody, the Mudblood's hand nearly hit the ceiling. Snape said, sounding annoyed, "Very well—Miss Granger?"

"Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform, which gives you a split-second advantage."

Bloody textbook.

"An answer copied almost word for word from the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six…" _Snape said.

_Called it, _Draco thought with a chuckle.

"…But correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some lack." He glanced at Potter, smirking, before continuing, "You will now divide into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other _without speaking. _The other will attempt to repel the jinx _in equal silence_. Carry on."

Draco and Zabini stood ten feet apart. Zabini went first, his face deadly intent and serious as he concentrated. Unlike others in the room, he was too proud to murmur the incantation under his breath, so Draco simply held up his wand and waited. In a short amount of time he saw the Mudblood repel Longbottom's jinx without her lips moving.

_What else is new, _he wondered.

"Pathetic, Weasley," Snape's words made Zabini and Draco look over. "Here—let me show you—"

Half a second later his spell flew. Potter started, yelled _"Protego!" _and accidentally sent Snape crashing against a desk. Standing upright and brushing his robes free of dust, the professor said:

"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing _nonverbal _spells, Potter?"

"Yes." Potter said.

"Yes, _sir_."

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' professor."

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, hating himself as a chuckle rose into his throat; okay, that was a _little _funny. Some people gasped; some, like Weasley, Thomas, and Finnegan, grinned.

Snape frowned. "Detention, Saturday night, my office. I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter…not even '_The Chosen One.'"_

The rest of class passed somewhat peacefully, and when the bell rang they left for break. Draco walked by the Mudblood going Prefect on Potter and left the group at the stairs. He decided to go to the library to start Snape's homework. It was difficult, but not so hard he didn't finish before Potions. He tucked the essay into his bag and went downstairs to the dungeons. He met Zabini near the door and tried to talk over the Golden Trio's and Ernie Macmillan's loud, pompous, and mostly one-sided conversation.

Slughorn opened the door, and the class entered the steaming room, already full of interesting scents. Draco sat at a table with the other Slytherins near a cauldron of what looked like hot water.

"Now then, now then, now then, scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies of _Advanced Potion-Making…"_

_Well, aren't you overly enthusiastic? _Draco wondered irritably.

"Sir?" Potter rose his hand.

"Harry, m'boy?" (Draco tried not to gag.)

"I haven't got a book or scales or anything—nor's Ron—we didn't realize we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see…"

_Well, it looks like you're just going to have to leave, won't you?_ Draco thought.

"Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention…not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts…"

He retrieved the books and scales and gave them to Potty and the Weasel.

"Now then," He said, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you can't make 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this is?" He indicated the cauldron near Draco's table.

The return to normalcy struck again: the Mudblood was first to raise her hand, and she answered, "It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth."

"Very good, very good," Slughorn said. "Now, this one here is pretty well-known… featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too…who can-?"

Again the Mudblood answered: "It's Polyjuice Potion, sir."

"Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here…yes, my dear?" Slughorn stared at the girl in amazement.

"It's Amortentia!"

"It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask, but I assume you know what it does?"

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world!"

_Ew, _Draco thought.

"Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," The Mudblood replied, "and it's supposed to smell differently to each of us, depending on what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and—" finally she shut up, going red.

Draco raised an eyebrow, curious. He supposed it was the cologne of the guy she liked. He wondered whether it was Potter or Weasley when he heard Slughorn say:

"…Granger? Granger? Can you possible be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"No, I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-Born, you see."

Draco leaned over and muttered to Nott, "As if her nonexistent relations are going to save her now." They both laughed.

"Oho!" Slughorn said, looking between the Mudblood and Potter. "'One of my best friends is Muggle-Born, and she's the best in our year!" I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

_When did he tell him that? _Draco thought as a sudden hot flash of irritation made his stomach turn over. It flipped again when he heard her say to Potter, "Did you really tell him I'm best in the year? Oh, Harry!"

"'Oh, Harry!'" Draco mocked under his breath in a nasal, high-pitched voice.

Zabini chuckled as Slughorn said, "Amortentia doesn't really create _love, _of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession—"

"He sounds like Dumbledore," Nott muttered. Draco smirked.

"—It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room—oh yes," he caught sight of Draco's and Nott's smirks and misinterpreted them as skepticism about love. "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love…and now it is time for us to start work."

"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one!" Macmillan said, indicating a splashing, golden potion near his table.

"Oho!" Slughorn said. "Yes. That. Well, _that _one, ladies and gentleman, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis." The Mudblood gasped loudly, and Slughorn turned to her. "I take it you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"

"It's liquid luck. It makes you lucky!"

_Hello, _Draco thought, giving the teacher his full attention. A lucky potion? He would take that help for his mission. Maybe, if he took it, he could just jinx her from behind and make her fall off the Grand Staircase. Oops.

"Quite right, take another ten points to Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis. Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed…at least until the effects wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" asked Terry Boot.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence. Too much of a good thing, you know…highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally…"

"Have you ever taken it, sir?" Michael Corner asked.

_Thank you for that intelligent and relevant question, Ravenclaw, _Draco thought.

"Twice in my life," replied the professor, "Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days. And that is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson." Removing a tiny bottle from his pocket, he held the golden vial up to that it winked in the lamplight. "One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis. Enough for twelve hours' luck, from dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.

"Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competitions…sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only…and watch as that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!

"So, how are you to win my fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of _Advanced Potion-Making. _We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time enough to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have ever attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

Draco opened his book, turning pages over quickly. After scanning the ingredients list, he pulled out his kit and scales.

"Looks like the Mudblood's going to join Slughorn's little Slug Club soon," Zabini muttered to Draco.

He responded with a noncommental grunt, getting valerian roots from his kit. Thinking about the Target made him think about what Potty has said and her reaction. So he said she was best in the year. What was so bloody great about that? _He _would say that she was best in the year, and he didn't even _like _her. He _hated_ her. Stupid Potter. Stupid, stuck-up, "oh boy, look at me, I'm the Chosen One" Potter. Draco's thoughts flew around his head as his strange irritation continued to grow until Zabini grabbed his wrist.

"Malfoy!" His voice snapped Draco back to his senses. "Stop murdering your roots and focus. You almost cut your hand off."

Draco looked at his silver knife, suspended just inches above the tips of his index, middle, and third fingers. "Ah," he said sheepishly, taking the slightly mangled roots and tossing them into his cauldron, where they hissed and frothed. The flame must have been too hot, for the room suddenly seemed much warmer.

"Maybe you should suck up a bit, try and get into his little 'Slug Club' too," Zabini murmured to him in an undertone, "It's worth a shot."

Professor Slughorn was nearing their table. Draco decided it couldn't hurt and said, "Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxus Malfoy?"

The teacher didn't even look at him. "Yes, I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age…." He departed.

Draco glanced at Zabini. "Thanks for that," he muttered sarcastically. Zabini shrugged it off. Draco spent the rest of the period stuck in the same spot as everyone else, stirring counterclockwise so the potion turned clear. The room had grown stifling, so he removed his robe, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the topmost button on his shirt.

Finally Slughorn called, "And time's…up! Stop stirring, please!"

Draco took out his stirring stick and wiped beads of sweat from his pale forehead. Slughorn moved around the room and finally cried in raptures, "The clear winner! Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good Lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are—one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!" He handed it to Potter.

Stupid Potter.

He noticed that Granger appeared disappointed, looking down at her cauldron with her hair frazzled out to the width of her shoulders and her lower lip in a slight pout. He smirked, thinking sardonically, _Can't be best in everything, love._

The bell rang, and Draco packed up his things, pulled his robe back on, and left the room with Zabini and Nott. They deposited their bags in their dorm before going to dinner, where Crabbe and Goyle complained about annoying fifth years in their classes and Pansy annoyed them all by talking about nothing.

He abruptly stood to leave the table, saying he was no longer hungry. He trudged downstairs to go to the Slytherin common room but paused where the corridor branched off towards Slughorn's classroom. The old man was still at dinner. Draco hesitated. Did he dare...?

Taking a chance, he half-sprinted down the hall to the classroom. He tried the door: Slughorn had left in unlocked. He opened the door slightly, just enough for him to slip inside. The room was dimly lit by the leftover embers from their fires. The cauldron of lucky potion shone brightly in the room.

Draco walked to it. It was close to Slughorn's desk, where a small, empty bottle sat, like an omen. It was only too easy to murmur a duplicating charm and take the second one. It was just as large as the one the professor had given Potter; he dipped it in the potion and stoppered it tightly before tucking it into his pocket.

He turned to go but caught sight of another shimmering potion on the other side of the room. Racking his brain, he recalled that it was the Amortentia. Draco recalled the Mudblood's words about how it would smell different to each person depending on what would most attract him or her. Curious, he stepped a little closer and took a sniff.

A mix of aromas met his nose: he immediately recognized his mother's vanilla perfume. Then he detected the heady, woody smell of his Nimbus 2001 after he polished it. Next was (great, he was as bad as Granger) the scent of parchment, simultaneously reminding him of new parchment and musty old books. Last came something completely unexpected: it was light, floral, alluring. Lilacs, he finally decided. The scent was oddly familiar, but he couldn't think of a girl he knew who wore lilac perfume.

**xoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxo**

_In the words of my friend, Draco's a MAMA'S BOY! I love writing that side of him. _

_IMPORTANT: I'm trying to update, but I'm super busy, so please be patient. Review!_

_Not posting more till I get 20 reviews!_

_Also, sorry about the Amortentia thing, I know it's a bit cliché._


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